Rest Easy
by Neva
Summary: My first effort in this category. Safe with the love of his life, James can't escape the nightmares of his past...


A/N: Secret Vampire is the only Night World book I've ever read, and this is my first story in this category. (I'm almost strictly an X-Men writer.) If you guys like it, you'll probably see more as I read more.

Disclaimer: The Night World series and all characters therein belong to Ms. Lisa Jane Smith. I wouldn't mind owning James, though. Such is life.

**

The third-floor room wasn't large or elaborate, and its one window was very small. After the explanations, reassurances, and tears had ended, Peter North had set about furnishing the room, which had been unused for years, for his all-too-recently resurrected daughter and her soulmate. They hadn't needed much, just a place to put their clothes, shelves for books and a sizeable music collection, and the bed they shared now.

So far, they had just held each other while they slept; joining their minds beat the hell out of physical passion. On the nights when Poppy fell asleep before he did, James was always forced to marvel at how _alive_ she seemed, even in her sleep, even for someone who had already died. How warm. And, of course, how beautiful, but that was beside the point. Having seen too much to believe in chance, he still hadn't figured out what he ever could have done, in this life or any other, that made him deserving of a girl like her.

But tonight, everything — their sanctuary, the wind tapping a branch of the tree outside against the window, even the miracle that lay there in his arms — was lost to him. In his sleeping mind, it was thirteen years earlier, in a large house in San Francisco.

_"Mama, read to me? Please?"_

_"I have a client coming over soon, darling. Ask your nanny." Whose name Maddy Rasmussen rarely used, as if she were just a labor-saving device and not a person. She always spoke with distaste, too. It was the same way the talked about the rich people whose houses she decorated. James wasn't yet old enough to perceive the difference; he only knew that the pretty blonde lady who looked after him wasn't like him or his parents. He had never seen her feed, but she didn't fall over choking like his dad had once when he had been studying too much to remember._

_But that didn't matter. He adored her. She had told him that his parents had hired her soon after he was born, and that she had known right away that he was something special. He loved hearing that; it sure wasn't something either of his parents ever said._

_She was waiting in the living room, her lap covered with books. Big thick books without any pictures. "Can you read to me, Miss Emma?"_

_"How could I say no to that face?" she replied, smiling at him._

_He smiled back and pointed. "Are those your books?"_

_"Yes. They're for school."_

_"I'm going to school next year."_

_"Your mom told me. But I don't think you'd like these books. They're for big people like me." _

_Her saying "people like me" reminded him of something that he was dying to ask, that he would have asked if both his parents hadn't told him over and over that it was too rude. "So what are we going to read?" he asked instead._

_"I don't know. Why don't you pick something?"_

_"I want to hear about Max and his monster suit. I want to hear about the wild things!"_

_Miss Emma put on a big pretend frown. "Are you sure, James? We've read that one a hundred times at least."_

_James giggled. She couldn't fool him. "Please?"_

_"What was that word?" She cupped her hand next to her ear._

_"_Please_?"_

_"One more time."_

_"Please, or I'll turn into a wild thing and eat you all up!" He hissed at her._

_She laughed. "Okay, my little wild thing. Go and get the book."_

_It was true — he had heard this story so many times that he could have said it right along with her. But that didn't matter. It always sounded like new. And he never had to tell her to do voices. She did them anyway, a squeaky voice for Max and a different deep growly one for each of the monsters._

_When it was over, she asked him, "Now do you promise not to eat me up?"_

_"I was just making a joke. I was just pretending."_

_"Are you sure? I might have to lock my door at night."_

_"I would never do anything like that, Miss Emma. I love you."_

_She put her arm around him, and he snuggled close. "I love you, too."_

_"Having fun?"_

_Both of them looked up. Jasper Rasmussen stood in the doorway, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes. "Hi, Daddy," James said, waving._

_"Hello." He favored Miss Emma with a nod. "Emma, don't you have to leave soon for class?"_

_"I was going." She blew James a kiss. "See you tomorrow, wild one."_

Poppy opened her eyes, at first not sure where she was. Where were her filmy white curtains, the familiar shapes of her dresser and desk, the comforting line of light from under the door?

Then she felt James shift beside her, and she smiled into the darkness for a moment. He turned rapidly, one arm flinging out to the side. She stared down at him, her improved night vision registering a face that was deep in slumber but far from peaceful. It was strained, like it had been when he was working up to telling her the truth.

She knew it was probably against some kind of Night World etiquette — if not, it was just plain bad manners — to go into someone's mind while they were sleeping, but she felt an absurd need to share whatever pain he was experiencing, and to help him, if she could. So she closed her eyes again, but instead of abandoning her senses to sleep, she extended them outward until she could sense his thoughts.

_James sat huddled on the stairs, listening to angry voices below._

_"He's getting too attached to her!"_

_"What's the harm in it, Jasper?"_

_"I'll tell you what the harm in it is! She's not our kind. We can take what we need from them, we can use them, we can even pay them well — give them something in return — but we can't mix with them in that way. You know it. I know it. Even he knows it. Maddy, it was never meant to be this way. We were never meant to see so little of him that he would be dependent on an outsider."_

_"He's four years old."_

_"Which is the problem. What if he lets something slip?"_

_Silence from below. "You never thought about that, did you?" his father said smugly._

_"All little children like to make up stories."_

_"Do all little children…" From this angle, James couldn't see, but he knew his dad had opened his mouth and displayed his fangs. "I rest my case."_

_Their voices lowered. They talked for a long time. When James heard their footsteps moving toward the stairs, he hopped up and sped to his room. Had they been talking about him? What did they mean? Was he going to be punished for spending too much time with Miss Emma? Why hadn't anyone told him it was bad?_

_His mother knocked on the door. "Are you in there, darling?" He knew she didn't need to ask. It was one of her tricks. She opened the door. "Your father and I have made a decision."_

_James braced himself._

_"The three of us are going to take a little vacation. We're going to the beach. You always loved the beach. Won't it be fun?"_

_If they were going on vacation, he thought, that meant he wasn't in trouble. Right? He nodded eagerly. "Is Miss Emma coming, too?"_

_His mother winced. "No, not this time. But you'll see her when we get back."_

Poppy resisted the urge to pull back. She didn't know what was coming next, but she had a pretty good idea that it wasn't good. She tried to wake him up, mentally shouting as loudly as she could, but he didn't respond.

He was too weak to walk, so his father carried him into the house. It had become clear that something was wrong when nobody — none of the nice people his parents said were witch donors — came to feed him on the first day. Or the second, or the third. By then, James could barely see clearly, barely even think clearly. They had to keep him inside so he wouldn't jump on the first person who passed by their beach house. If he'd been able to talk, he would have asked why they were doing this to him.

I was bad._ That was the only way he could explain it. _I was bad because I loved Miss Emma more than them, so they punished me. But it's over now, right? They can't punish me any more, right?

_The pain had come on and off, but now it was back, so bad that he started shaking. He wrapped his arms around his father's neck. _See_, he would have said. _I do love you. I'll do anything. Just make it stop.

_Up the stairs. Vague noises of a door opening. Set down on the bed. "I'm sorry to do this, James." The voice was so far away. "But it's for the best. You'll understand someday." Door closing._

_He closed his eyes. So weak, so scared. Why were they doing this to him? Why? Why? He wasn't bad. He was good. He was._

_Tried to take in air. Couldn't. The room split into bright patterns of light and dark, with a large dark blot in the very center. Becoming bigger… and bigger… Sleep. He needed to sleep. It wouldn't hurt anymore if he slept._

_Door opened again. Another voice, one he barely recognized. "I missed you."_

_He didn't hear her. But he could smell her. Oh yes. Bright scarlet thick throbbing rich moving always moving sweet bright life. Moving as she moved. But constant, glowing, in the shifting room._

No_, he told himself. _You love her. You can't hurt her. You promised.__

_"Are you asleep?"_

_He curled into a tight ball. If he stayed still, it wasn't so bad. And he couldn't trust himself to make a single move._

_"It's bedtime now," she was saying, "but I'll come over tomorrow, and we can read your book again. How about that." She sat down on the bed next to him._

_Pain gone. Tired gone. Need took its place. Craving. There were no words to describe it. He leapt up._

_She opened her arms, thinking he was going to hug her in greeting. He was sure his parents, all the way downstairs, could hear her scream as his teeth pierced her neck. Life flowed into him, sweet hot juicy. And as soon as he could think again, he stared down at the pale pretty face, eyes widened in shock but unseeing, blond hair all around like a halo._

_He knew this face._

_Knew this face._

_Knew her._

_His Miss Emma, who had held him and read to him and cheered him up when he was sad, when his own parents looked at him like they were wondering what they had ever done to deserve such a punishment._

_Like he was wondering now._

"JAMES, WAKE UP!"

His eyes snapped open. He could breathe again, which he did, in great sharp gusts of air. He wasn't four, he was seventeen. He wasn't in his parents' house in San Francisco, but in Peter North's house, miles away. It wasn't Miss Emma who was next to him. It was Poppy. And she wasn't pale and lifeless, soon to become a literal zombie. She was leaning over him, green eyes wide. One look into those eyes and he knew she'd seen it all. "You were having a nightmare," was all she said.

"I'm okay."

"Why didn't you tell me?" she whispered.

"I was…" He searched for a word. "Ashamed. So ashamed. I didn't want you to think that if I'd done that to one person I cared about, I'd do it to another."

"It wasn't your fault." The voice was soft and anguished — for _him_ — with none of Poppy's effervescence.

"I know." He kept gulping in air, as if he couldn't get enough of it. "I know. But I didn't then. I didn't want you to think it… because for a while… _I_ thought it. I never forgave myself."

"It wasn't your fault," she repeated. And he could see her frown. "And the only thing I'm mad at you about is that you told Phil before you told me."

That sounded like the Poppy he knew. "You got me." He pulled her close to him. Her curly hair fell all over his face, and he didn't care. But he shook it off in time to say, "I'm glad I escaped. I'm glad I'm here with you."

Yesterday was gone. He could believe that now. And tomorrow would get here soon. He couldn't wait.


End file.
